h his legs had been shot off. He continued to smoke a cigar
while they were amputated and dressed, in the presence of Alexander,
and died shortly after; thus, if he had erred, paying the early forfeit
of his errors.

But Fortune had only revisited the banners of her ancient favourite with
a momentary gleam of sunshine. The fatigues he had undergone between the
15th and the 28th of August would have broken any other frame, and they,
for the time, weakened his. It is said that a mess of mutton and garlic,
the only food he had tasted on the 26th, had besides deranged his
stomach. Unable to remain with the columns in the rear of
Schwartzenberg, he returned to Dresden weary and sick; and thenceforth
evil tidings awaited him.

Vandamme continued the pursuit on the Pirna road. Seduced by the
enormous prize which lay before him at Toeplitz, where the chief
magazines of the Allies had been established, and on which all their
broken columns were now endeavouring to reassemble, this rude and
hot-headed soldier incautiously advanced beyond the wooded heights of
Peterswald into the valley of Culm. A Russian corps suddenly turned on
him, and formed in line of battle. Their General, Count D'Osterman,
assured them that the life of "their Father" depended on their
steadfastness; and no effort could shake them. The battle continued till
night, when Vandamme ought undoubtedly to have retired to Peterswald. He
lingered till the morning of the 30th;--when behind him, on those very
heights, appeared the Prussian corps of Kleist, who had been wandering
and lost their way amidst the forests. The French rushed up the hill in
despair, thinking they were intercepted by design. The Prussians, on
their part, doubted not that some other division of Napoleon's force was
hard behind them, and rushed down--with the same fear, and the same
impetuosity. The Russians advanced and completed the disarray. The field
was covered with dead: Vandamme and nearly 8000 men laid down their
arms. Many eagles were taken--the rest of the army dispersed in utter
confusion among the hills.

This news reached Napoleon still sick at Dresden. "Such," said he to
Murat, "is the fortune of war--high in the morning--low ere night.
Between triumph and ruin there intervenes but a step." A map lay
stretched on the table before him; he took his compasses, and measuring
distances on it with an idle hand, repeated the lines of one of his
favourite poets:

"J'ai servi, comma